Why Do You Care
by writing in the rain
Summary: "Why do you care?" Albus snarled as he moved to pick his bloody blade up from where he'd left it lying carelessly on the floor. **Trigger Warning, details inside.


**Okay this is just something I wrote real quick at about 2:17 in the morning when I was feeling particularly depressed. It's not edited so beware of any mistakes, don't hesitate to point any out in reviews or anything and I'll try to fix them.**

***trigger warning: contains kinda detailed scenes of cutting and attempted suicide***

**Also fanfiction wouldn't let me put the actual title as the title for what I believe is an obvious reason, so that it why the title is different here. **

**Why the Fuck Do You Care? **

Albus Potter was in one of his slumps. For the past week he had been even sadder than usual; he was lacking even the motivation to get out of bed in the mornings. If he had his way he would spend all day simply lying around so as to avoid doing anything whatsoever. But Rose wouldn't let him do that. She never let him do anything he wanted. Well that was an exaggeration; she wouldn't let him do anything that was even slightly self-destructive. Which, Albus figured, he couldn't _really _blame her for, but it still pissed him off.

Of course, Rose had no idea that he wasn't in his bed right now—at 2:17 in the morning—but instead in the long since vacant prefect's bathroom. While there was nothing particularly wrong with being in the prefects bathroom that late, other than the fact that it was very much past curfew (even for prefects), there was definitely something wrong with the blade Albus currently had pressed to his wrist.

Albus had been depressed for a long time. It had started around the beginning of fifth year, for no particular reason other than the fact that Albus felt that he had absolutely no reason to be happy; ever since, the depression had been getting progressively worse.

And now Albus had hit what might have been a new low for him; he honestly couldn't remember. He couldn't live up to the pressures of being Harry Potter's son anymore. His every move was compared to not only his father's past accomplishments, but also those of his brother James, who had been the perfect legacy, following in his father's footsteps and being practically perfect in every way. And now Albus was stuck living up to both of those superb people while preparing to sit his N.E.W.T's in just a few short months that he was in no way ready for because honestly what was the point?

So there he was: awake with the stars bleeding blood like darkness out of the five new and shockingly deep cuts that had recently joined the old scars on his wrist. But this time it was different. As he pulled his dulling blade across his skin once more, pressing as hard as his shaking fingers could manage, there was no release as per usual, not even a flicker; the rush he usually got from the pain was nonexistent. The rest of him felt that way too.

But even though it was doing nothing for him, Albus continued to mutilate both of his wrists until his lower arms were dripping red raindrops unto the tile beneath him. Albus had reached the point of the night where he usually healed the fresh cuts—he had become fairly decent at simple healing magic, though he was not talented enough to remove the many scars—but the blood on his arms enthralled him, so Albus simply watched himself bleed. He was so out of it with sadness and pain that he didn't hear when another unsuspecting person wandered into the bathroom for a random nighttime swim—hadn't he locked the door? Albus didn't hear their whispered curses as they saw him lying in his own blood. He didn't realize he wasn't alone until he felt gentle hands on his wrists pressing down conjured cloths.

And then Albus looked up from the blood he couldn't see any more into the sliver-grey eyes of Scorpius Malfoy—had they always been that breathtaking? Malfoy mistook Albus' quick intake of breath as one of pain, so he quickly shushed him and began whispering comforting lies into the broken man's ear.

"Let me help you," he insisted when Albus realized he was letting the very person who had bullied him for so many years stop his very much wanted death.

"Why the fuck do you care?" Albus snarled as he moved to pick his bloody blade up from where he'd left it lying carelessly on the floor, suddenly feeling the urge to cut again, even though his wrists were already overflowing with his pain. Scorpius, however, was too quick for him and before his fingers were within inches of it, the blade was in Scorpius' grip, safely out of reach from Albus' desperate fingers. "Give that back!" He demanded, his words slurred together a bit as the blood loss from his unattended cuts began to catch up with him.

"No. You need help Po—Albus. Let me help you. I'll take you to the hospital wing; Madam Reckney will fix you right up." Scorpius offered his hand to Albus, hoping the boy he pretended to loathe would accept his very sincere help.

"Clearly you don't understand the situation Malfoy," Albus growled, all his pent up anger boiling to the surface. "You're obviously not as smart as you'd like everyone to think." Then after Malfoy's continued look of incomprehension Albus continued. "I don't want to be fixed." He spoke the meaningful sentence slowly as if he was speaking to a child. After a moment of tension filled silence, Albus' anger spoke again. "And what gives you the right to call me Albus. You're part of the reason I'm doing this anyways." And that was true. Malfoy had bullied Albus for years, and that hurt not only for obvious reasons, but because Albus harbored deeper feelings for the boy, and that made everything he said hurt that much more.

These words hit Malfoy particularly hard. They were said rather quietly, and Scorpius wasn't sure if was even supposed to have heard the last bit, but either way he was hit by a wave of undeniable guilt. He was only mean to Albus, not because he hated the boy as he made it out to be, but because it was honestly the best way to hide his true feelings. His father couldn't get mad at him for hating a Potter, which he had at first, but somewhere along the line, hatred turned into attraction and _that _would certainly displease his father. And while that was extremely important to Scorpius, it was just an excuse mostly, because being nice would mean admitting to himself that his feelings for Albus were definitely real and that was the scariest thing Scorpius could face. So hearing that he was part of the reason Albus wanted to die, was like having a ton of bricks dropped on top of him; it was crushing. Scorpius cared deeply for Albus, and he certainly didn't want him to die.

"Albus, honestly, I'm really sorry about—" but just Scorpius was beginning his long overdue apology, the previously fine (prospectively) Albus collapsed, finally being overtaken by his injuries. Scorpius was shocked out of his momentary inaction by this turn of events, and he instantly mobilized Albus' eerily limp body and floated him all the way up the infirmary.

Once there, Scorpius took residence in the chair beside Albus' bed and watched whilst Madam Reckney went about making him less injured. It seemed to take forever, but once she was done healing Albus and he was done answering the inquires of the nurse and refusing to leave no matter what she said, Scorpius was free to settle into a comfortable position where he would wait until morning so he could tell Albus why the fuck he did care, even if he was not so sure why that was himself.


End file.
